


A Fly In His Web

by Elysium (Elysium66)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adventure, Closet Sex, Complete, F/M, Halloween, Humor, Mistaken Identity, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 14:28:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3981511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elysium66/pseuds/Elysium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Hermione attends a Weasley run Halloween party, she expects some mayhem to ensue. What she doesn’t expect is to end up with Draco Malfoy in such a sticky situation. And given what happened between them the year before, she’s getting very worried about forming bad habits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

‘Between your hair and these cobwebs, it’s a wonder I haven’t asphyxiated and died.’ The tone was conversational, and Hermione found the man’s ability to speak so lightly of their predicament quite irritating. Actually, she found  _him_  in general to be quite irritating.  
  
‘Shame too,’ she muttered.  
  
Her companion narrowed his gaze in her direction, dispensing with his unnaturally frothy demeanour. Now  _this_  she recognised. Although, she had to admit that his usually arctic glare of disdain was somewhat less effective on this occasion, given that he was—like her—currently bound tightly in an extravagant display of edible cobwebs.   
  
The sheer absurdness of the image rather took the bite out of any scathing attack he might have launched. This was a relief, because Hermione was rather weary from the constant back and forth between herself and the ever-obnoxious Draco Malfoy.  
  
Hermione liked Halloween as much as the next person, but she found that this particular year was likely to severely mar her overall appreciation of the night. Spending time in such exceptionally close quarters with a person one  _really_  didn’t get along well with could have that effect. Post-traumatic stress, they called it. And given their history … indeed, given what had happened with him exactly one year prior, she rather thought she was now a prime candidate for the syndrome.  
  
They were presently tucked away in a hidden corner of the vast and rather  _rustic_ attic of a very old and very creepy manor house. Furthermore, they were bundled obnoxiously close together, entangled in the sticky white substance that had recently become a huge hit over Halloween at the Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes store.  
  
When George had first shown her the novelty cobwebs, she’d found them quite interesting. Of course that was before she realised they had the sticking power of extra-strength, be-spelled duct tape. She now held an extreme resentment towards the webs and their creator in general. After all, if it weren’t for the Weasleys, specifically Ron and George, and their need to throw outrageous parties such as this every year, she would not be bound with her nose bare inches from brushing that of Malfoy.  
  
A brief burst of cool air tickled her cheek and she turned her head to face the culprit. His patrician nose almost met hers, and the piercing quality of his ash-like gaze upon her made Hermione’s stomach swoop involuntarily. She’d never seen his eyes so close up. They were an arctic grey with the barest wash of pale blue in their hue. She’d never seen any eyes quite like his before. They were pretty, objectively speaking, if a man’s eyes could really be that. They were also far too incisive and calculating for her comfort.  
  
His lips were close, the barest breath away. They were soft, questing. She knew them, had felt the texture of them move against her own once upon a time. That was best left forgotten though. And, in any case, it was something of which only  _she_  was aware. Thank Merlin for that. She felt confident that when, or if, he cast his mind back to that night a year before, he would never have guessed it was Hermione Granger who assailed him in the dark. And she was  _hardly_  going to tell him.  
  
Hermione was so caught up in these thoughts that she almost didn’t notice when the aforementioned lips moved fractionally closer. She could almost taste the sweet elf-made wine that lingered on his breath.  
  
Almost.  
  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
 _Earlier that night …_  
  
  
  
  
The house was, as ever, preposterously enormous. It was set on the Yorkshire moors, no less, which she rather thought made it eerie enough, but the fact that the gothic structure was equipped with the most ferocious looking gargoyles Hermione had ever seen certainly did the trick. She almost expected Heathcliff to come charging at her out of nowhere, yelling at her to get off his ill-acquired property.  
  
The air that rushed from her chilled lips condensed like a cloud when it left the warm cavern of her mouth. She gazed up at the grey building once more and shook her head.  
  
‘You must admit they’ve outdone themselves this year.’ Ginny was standing next to Hermione, equally slack-jawed. The younger woman’s gaze was variously focused, not on the gargoyles, but instead on the intimidating gated entrance, sinisterly lit pumpkins that lined the path to the house, and the ominous shadows that seemed to constantly whoosh past the high windows.  
  
Hermione quite agreed.  
  
‘Be careful not to say that too loud. It’ll only encourage them.’  
  
Both women grinned. The truth was they thought it wonderful that George threw himself into the business he had shared with his twin with _quite_  as much vigour as he did. After the war, and the death of his brother, the whole Weasley clan hadn’t been quite the same. They’d mostly worried about George though; the loss was more acute for him than anyone else could fathom. That was why Ron had stepped in to try and fill the void, and help out with the store. Over time, it had been exactly what George needed, and Hermione rather thought his enthusiasm came from upholding the memory of his twin.  
  
None of them would ever say a word to discourage him, even if it meant getting caught up in some of his crazier endeavours. This night in particular was one of them, although Hermione had to admit she did rather look forward to it. Halloween was just as big a celebration in the magical world as it was for Muggles, perhaps more so because there were absolutely no cynics. Witches and wizards knew perfectly well that goblins and ghouls and all manner of alarmingly sharp-toothed monsters  _did_  exist.  
  
And in honour of what had always been a favourite celebration of the twins in their youth, Ron and George had started a tradition only a few years prior, of holding a fantastically themed party in honour of the night. The party was always held in a different location, usually some variation on the haunted house theme, and they took the decorations to the max. Why, Hermione was still scared of pumpkins after she’d been barricaded in a room two years earlier and chased in circles by a disembodied head carved from one.  
  
Suffice it to say, eating a roast at her parents' house for Christmas had never quite been the same after that.  
  
The tomfoolery wasn’t the only reason why everyone looked forward to it so much though. Though she was loath to admit to anyone quite how much she eagerly anticipated the quest segment of the evening, she rather thought her feeble attempt at nonchalance fooled no one. It was the competition that had her most eager about the night. After all, she’d never been one to turn away from a challenge.  
  
George had announced at only the second Halloween party they’d thrown, that they were introducing a miniature quest into the celebrations, something to get everybody revved up. This all preceded the eventual descent into drunken disorder, excessive consumption of candy and the general disrepair of the property, which was quite inevitable at any sort of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes’ event. And, after all, they did invite a lot of people.  
  
The truth of the matter was that the wizarding community in London wasn’t all that extensive, so one tended to see the same people at social events. And those people had either attended Hogwarts  _with_  them, or with their parents. It was rather incestuous, actually, and made meeting new people appallingly difficult.  
  
‘Come on then,’ said Ginny. ‘Harry said we turn left at the misshapen statue of a ghoul. Just inside, apparently.’  
  
‘Charming,’ Hermione quipped. ‘You realise they probably finished setting up hours ago and spent the rest of the time drinking themselves silly.’  
  
‘No doubt. I wonder, do they really think we don’t know all of their trade secrets?’  
  
Hermione grinned at her friend and shrugged her shoulders. ‘We’d best get in before lock up. They’d never forgive us if we were late, and frankly I don’t much like the idea of getting stuck out here all night.’  
  
Together they followed the other latecomers up the winding drive to the large entrance. As expected, they received a stern look from Harry who had apparently been instructed to watch for them both. It was tradition that all doors were shut and locked at the stroke of 8 o’clock to discourage lateness, but also to add to the generally eerie theme of the night. They weren’t reopened until after midnight, in case any would-be boring people attempted to leave the festivities early.  
  
Hermione didn’t actually know anyone who had ever wanted to leave the party early and miss out on all the fun, but George took the whole thing very seriously. As seriously as one determined to make all of life fun actually could.  
  
As they were ushered in by a Harry who had, apparently, spent the afternoon in the cups, Hermione gazed about in awe. The vast hallway was dark and lined with flamed torches along the walls, and a dense mist hung low across the floor. The paintings that lined the walls were sinister, and strange breathing noises appeared to be issuing from the suit of armour to her right.  
  
Yes, George Weasley took his job very seriously.  
  
‘So, Harry ... are you going to tell us what the prize is this year because—’  
  
‘While I live and breathe ... Hermione Granger attempting to  _cheat!_ ‘Hermione turned at the interruption from the evening’s maestro, who had just entered the room with Ron, a crooked grin on his face.  
  
The prize to which she referred was the rare magical item on offer to the winner of the Halloween Scavenger Hunt. Each year a rare item was awarded to the person who managed to locate it first within the maze of obstacles that were always lurking out of sight in the various rooms of the haunted house. Hermione had been so close to winning the year before, but that obnoxious git, Zacharias Smith, had stolen the prize right out from under her nose.  
  
It was supposed to be a game, of course, but she felt very competitive this year after what had happened. Of course, it wasn’t like any normal scavenger hunt—that would be far too easy. The participants were always impaired in some way, usually without sight, and left to their own devices. This of course meant most of the time was spent stumbling about rather than employing any great skill to win, but she supposed that it was all a part of the silliness of the night. And these days Hermione quite liked a bit of silliness now and then.  
  
‘You know perfectly well I’ve no need to cheat. I’m just trying to work out how much I’ll want the prize.’ She sniffed rather disdainfully.  
  
Ron and George turned to each other with matching grins. ‘A  _lot_ ,’ said the former.  
  
As they were still standing in the vast entry hall, Hermione couldn’t actually see the majority of the partygoers, and she figured she’d best size up her competition quickly.  
  
‘He’s here, isn’t he?’  
  
‘Who?’ asked Ginny. ‘The list of people you could be referring to is quite long actually.’  
  
This was rather true. It was hardly Hermione’s fault that there were quite so many obnoxious people in wizarding London, and though she tried her very best to let go of grudges from her youth, and more recent ones at that, being mature wasn’t always as easy as it seemed.  
  
‘I’m referring to  _him_  of the blond hair and perpetual sneer—’ her diatribe was interrupted by an enlightened sigh, which spread around the group.  
  
‘Malfoy, then. Yeah, he’s here.’ This was George.  
  
Her eyes flew open in unmitigated horror. ‘What? No! I was talking about Smith … he poached the prize from me last year and …  _why_  is Malfoy here?’ In truth, she couldn’t blame her friends for thinking she was referring to the latter, given that there was in fact no person alive more blond or prone to sneering than him. Yet, she’d been so certain he wouldn’t be at the party this year.  
  
‘Actually Smith  _does_  sneer quite a bit, doesn’t he? I just thought it was some sort of facial defect, you know?’ Ginny looked quite thoughtful.  
  
Ron snorted in agreement. ‘Hate to say it, but Smith’s here too.’  
  
Delightful, thought Hermione. It was like an evening in honour of blond and obnoxious men. She couldn’t decide, in that moment, whose presence irritated her more.  
  
She finally tuned out of the chatter, and followed her companions through the main corridor. They all assumed she was aggravated about Draco Malfoy’s presence because he was, well,  _Draco Malfoy_. Such a reaction was only natural after all. But it wasn’t because her co-worker annoyed her that she was suddenly very uncomfortable. It was because of the sweeping sense of déjà vu that skittered down her spine.  
  
Okay, truthfully there was an element of annoyance in there too. Malfoy had told her in no uncertain terms that he wouldn’t be at the party that night. Apparently, he’d had other things to do. She should have known better of course, because the heir apparent never missed an opportunity to try buttering up the crowd. A quality clearly inherited from his father.  
  
She spotted him almost immediately when they entered the vast dining hall, which was to be the central point for the festivities. He was on the far side of the room, looking rather disdainfully about. Hermione didn’t recognise the witch he was speaking to, but she’d already formulated a rather low opinion of her.  
  
The room was decorated much like the entry hall, with mist clinging low about her feet. Tables laden with food and refreshments lined the walls and plenty of empty space had been provided should guests wish to dance later on. When Harry passed her a Butterbeer, Hermione sighed with contentment. The warm and fuzzy sensation in her stomach after a few sips always calmed her nerves.  
  
The vast group of people were generally chatting away and sipping their drinks, awaiting the announcement from George, which would signal the start of the evening. Hermione wanted to use the spare moment to interrogate Malfoy. So, with shoulders pushed back and eyes narrowed, she marched toward him.  
  
It irked her to no end when he kept his back turned to her, even though she knew quite well his companion had pointed her out. The insipid girl wandered off though, and Hermione was left staring at the black drape of fabric across Malfoy’s shoulder blades, and stewing in her irritation.  
  
‘Granger,’ he drawled in a tone that positively reeked of entitlement. ‘Is there a reason you’re hovering behind me like that?’ He turned to cast an appraising look at her. ‘Complete  _lack_  of manners … someone really should have taken you to hand at a young age.’  
  
She narrowed her eyes at him and tried not to rise to the bait. This wasn’t especially easy, as the man had a wonderful knack for pushing the right buttons. She was hardly a wallflower, though. Hermione rather thought she gave as good as she got, which in turn was probably why he kept at it. The satisfaction of a reaction, and all that.  
  
‘Speaking of manners, and  _your_  apparent lack of them … why are you here?’  
  
He raised a brow in bemusement. ‘I wasn’t aware I needed your permission to accept invitations … and given that the general point of the evening is  _fun_ , I’m rather shocked to find  _you_  here. Shouldn’t you be dragging all the misbehaving boys out by their ears by now?’  
  
In fact, she’d love nothing more than to drag him out by his ear and to lock him outside where he could be of no harm.  
  
‘You told me you weren’t coming tonight. I specifically asked you!’ She knew she sounded a bit irrational, but she hadn’t been at all mentally prepared to deal with him outside of office hours. Especially not tonight of all nights.  
  
‘Are you going to spank me for being naughty too? Ever so sorry.’ He sneered down at her in a look that combined both haughtiness and unconcealed amusement.  
  
Draco Malfoy worked alongside Hermione in the Ministry, at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She had only transferred there eight months ago, having previously worked in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures on a whole other floor. The offer of a position within the MLE had always been available to her, given her efforts in the war, but unlike Ron and Harry, she hadn’t chosen to take it up at first. She’d finally decided to take them up on the offer when told she would have a hand in rewriting old pro pure-blood laws. The appeal of that had been irresistible.  
  
Of course, the dramatic down fall in taking up the job meant that she had a desk right alongside Malfoy, who was working in the same position she was to take up. The concept of Malfoy having any job, let along one that involved erasing the history and values of his forebears was rather hard to grasp. He certainly didn’t need the money. She had only assumed it was for political reasons. The Malfoys were notorious for trying to worm their way into good opinion.  
  
In any case, she’d found while working with him, that even though his acerbic tongue drove her to distraction, his contributions were surprisingly helpful. He was clever, something she’d never really noticed in school. That was probably because he spent too much time wishing he was Harry and flaunting his money to apply himself.  
  
The reason it had taken Hermione so long to accept the offer was two-fold. Firstly, she’d really strived to improve the situation for mistreated magical creatures; a seemingly impossible task in a world full of people who placed little to no value on them. The second reason was that she’d felt terribly awkward at the prospect of being around Malfoy after what she’d done the year before.  
  
Previous to that night, she’d always just ignored him whenever they attended the same social or work related events. He’d been a cruel child, and she’d borne the brunt of a lot of that cruelty, so she’d felt no desire to know him any better. It didn’t matter what Harry and others had said about the minor improvements in his character. And, truthfully, it wasn’t as though the man had made any effort to change her opinion in the slightest.  
  
That was all by the by, really, because it had changed drastically since her actions at the last Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes’ Halloween Party. It had been only six months after the general decline in her relationship with Ron. The eventual split had been neither acrimonious nor very official. In truth, it had seemed as though they’d eventually stopped being lovers and started being friends again.  
  
The confusion had, of course, been rather horrible. After all, Hermione had been so certain that, whatever his faults, Ron was  _the one_. Whatever that meant. After a couple of glasses of wine at the party that night, a result of the relationship’s death  _and_  her general indignation toward Zacharias Smith, she’d been more than a little tipsy.  
  
In that fuzzy and adventurous frame of mind, she’d decided the time had come to stop being staid and true Hermione. She wanted to do something a little reckless, show Ron what they still had. This would have been a wonderful plan, had the night’s theme  _not_ been fancy dress, and had Ron  _not_  been wearing a very similar garment to Malfoy.  
  
All she remembered was seeing the man that she thought was her former boyfriend stepping into the cloakroom and about to leave. The urge to stop him had been acute. So, naturally, she followed him. She’d taken him completely by surprise when her palms pressed against his back. If she’d been paying proper care, she might have noticed that when she pushed the folds of the mask up over his mouth, his lips felt different. And he seemed more in shock than was strictly necessary.  
  
Men being men, that hadn’t lasted for long. She’d been thoroughly caught up in the texture of his kiss, of the excitement of it all, and the way his hands moulded her body. As such, it took her a few moments to notice that the back of his mask had slid up revealing hair that was pale in its hue, and definitely not the bright orange of a Weasley.  
  
Startled and horrified, she’d fled, eternally thankful for the relative darkness in the room and the generic nature of her own costume. That incident had pretty much killed off any desire to be spontaneous ever again in her life. And she was so mortified that she didn’t dare mention it to any of her friends.  
  
She and Ron, of course, did not get back together. That was all right now though; she had come to the conclusion they were better off as friends anyway. As for Malfoy, she’d managed to avoid him well enough afterwards. That was, until she’d transferred to his department and had to suffer him every morning. Between her eternal mortification, mild and disturbing  _fascination_ , and his general obnoxiousness … it was rather a hard situation to contend with.  
  
And it wasn’t as though she thought that with both of them being there tonight there’d be some sort of repeat. She just really wanted to enjoy herself without receiving the constant flashbacks that came with his near presence. Thankfully, there were no costumes this year. That would have been  _way_  too much to bear.  
  
‘Granger … your stare is starting to scare me. Are you drooling?’ She snapped her attention back to him, a bit disturbed to note she  _had_  been staring. Though, whatever he thought about his dubious charms, she most certainly had not been drooling.  
  
‘I was  _not_. Look, never mind. I have more important things to do than argue with you.’ She sniffed disdainfully and spun on her heel.  
  
The next half hour passed quite quickly, with good music and a lot of laughter. Hermione was delighted though, when George’s voice carried over the din to call for everyone’s attention.  
  
‘Step right up, everyone and set down drinks. Scavenger Hunt’s about to begin so you’d all best check in your wands and get your instructions.’  
  
The swarm of people gathered closer in order to hand their precious wands to the caretaker for the evening. It was the one part of the event that Hermione did  _not_  enjoy. In any case, she knew the house was be-spelled to avoid any issues and that their wands were well protected.  
  
The small pouch she held before her opened to reveal a loudly wrapped sweet, very reminiscent of the Skiving Snackboxes for which the Weasleys were so famous.  
  
‘Now if you look in your pouches you’ll find a little sweetie. We’re not going with blindfolds this year since you lot are untrustworthy.’ A titter of laughter danced through the motley crew. ‘The sweet will make you lose your sight until you find the accompanying sweet around the house. They’re hidden in loads of places so you shouldn’t have a problem.’  
  
He grinned a Weasley grin.  
  
‘Of course … you might still fall down a flight of stairs whilst trying to  _find_  the cure, but that’s all part of the fun. And have no fear about injuries … after that unfortunate incident with Barnabus last year … we’ve taken a few precautions!’  
  
That was only because Hermione had expressly told them to apply liberal cushioning charms. Thank Merlin for that.  
  
‘Now, with the sweet, you will also receive a clue to the final location, which you can properly look for. But don’t think that just because you have your sight back that it’ll be easy.’ He paused to grin again. ‘It  _won’t_.’  
  
‘Reckon he enjoys it a bit too much.’ Hermione turned at the new voice and smiled up at Neville Longbottom.  
  
‘Hi Neville. I have to agree with you there. Goodness knows what he’s got in store.’  
  
All of the participants were to take a bite of their chew before being escorted to various different locations around the house. Ron and George had recruited a lot of people to help with this aspect of the organisation. Finally, when everyone was ready they would sound the alarm and then off they’d go.  
  
It was only a brief time later when Hermione found herself sightless and standing in what she could only assume was a very sinister corner of the house. She hated this part, being blind to all around her; it made relying on her other senses all the more important.  
  
Her spine tingled with anticipation as she waited for the sound. And, when the tinkling rang through the air, she was off.  
  
  
*  
  
  
She felt like she’d been walking through a sea of marshmallows for the past half hour, such was her lack of success in navigation. Hermione couldn’t help but wonder how much of a struggle everyone else was having. Yet, in spite of her desire to rush forth, she played a calculated game, and that would see to her success. Slow and steady, as the saying went.  
  
Her fingers brushed against the gilt frame of a painting, and she jumped back when its occupant hissed at her quite venomously. She knew she was close though. She could smell the sickly sweet and cloying scent lingering in the air. It was different to the damp odour of decay, which had hovered in the last room, she was in. Hermione really did not want to  _know_  what was housed in there, and could only be grateful that she no longer was.  
  
A rustling noise behind her, followed by the sound of a foot crushing into carpet, made her realise she was not alone. She’d be damned if that person got there before her. The air was thick as she moved further into the room, but the smell of sweetness cloaked her. She took small steps closer, careful not to collide with any walls.  
  
After scarcely a minute of prowling blindly around the room, Hermione’s wrist bumped a small table in the far corner of the room, and her fingers brushed the little velvet pouch resting atop its flat surface. She’d found it. Hermione was just about to celebrate this small victory when a body collided into her from behind. She made to jump out of the way but the person, realising what she was about, made valiant efforts to grasp the bag from her fingers.  
  
She shoved him and, with the unknown assailant still gripping her, they both tumbled to the floor.  
  
‘Ouch!’ she cried, trying to disentangle herself from the fiend.  
  
‘Oh, it’s you, Granger.’ The voice was distinctly recognisable as the nasal whine of Zacharias Smith. Her nemesis. Her eyes narrowed into slits he couldn’t see.  
  
‘Smith, you prat, get off me! You won’t cheat and get away with it this year.’ He muttered something that seemed to suggest otherwise, so she did the only thing she could think of at that moment. She smacked him. Granted, she was fairly certain she missed his cheek, but the howl he let out was quite satisfactory.  
  
She wasn’t normally one to descend to violence quite like that, but there had been glittering moments in her past when she’d encountered someone who really had it coming. Retaliation in such instances was, in her opinion, a matter of principle.  
  
The horrid man was wheezing nearby and muttering a string of obscene curses. Hermione viewed his distraction as the perfect opportunity to slip away. Gripping the small pouch in her fingers, she crawled out of Smith’s general area and began to rummage quickly through the bag’s contents. When her fingers found the neatly wrapped sweet, she yanked it from the bag and almost inhaled it. It was a few seconds before the inky blackness faded and proper shapes started to form. It was a few minutes before she actually felt she could stand without toppling over. There was, she had to admit, a lot of pleasure to be derived from eyeing Smith rolling about on the floor.  
  
She dusted herself off, grabbed the bag and left him to it. Rotten man wouldn’t win this year. She’d make sure of it.  
  
The house was just as creepy as she had suspected. It was difficult to determine just where she was, because the windows had been barricaded, but based on the previously dank smell, she would guess near the cellars of the house. Delightful.  
  
Hermione tucked herself into the safety of a corner and brushed the errant strands of curled hair from her eyes. Her fingers sought the small scrap of parchment and the enlightenment she was after.  
 


	2. Part II

There was something to be said for having a complete lack of competitive spirit. In such an instance, Hermione could have been settled at home perusing her newly acquired edition of  _Numerology and Gramatica._ Instead she was, now feeling rather bedraggled, prowling around unending corridors in a manor which was creepy beyond her powers of description.  
   
  
And she had always prided herself on being rather articulate.  
   
  
In the past half hour or so, she had encountered a smorgasbord of strange scents, sinister noises and inanimate objects, which were, lamentably, _quite_  animate. Take the ornate chaise with the brocade covering, which she had only recently stumbled upon. The one that proceeded to use its well-turned legs to chase her down one of the aforementioned unending corridors.  In fact, she’d never been chased by quite so many different things in such a short space of time in all her life. Given that her life included 9 months on the run from Death Eaters, this was saying something.  
  
   
Presently, Hermione was tucked in the corner of a small foyer that led back to the main staircase in the vast building. From what she had ascertained, there were in fact several other staircases leading in a whole host of new and un-chartered directions. The only magical dwellings Hermione had actually lived in for any real amount of time were The Burrow and the Hogwarts Castle. She was beginning to have a real appreciation for the wizarding homeowner’s propensity for building houses with unexpectedly diverging corridors, staircases and doorways.  
  
   
In fact, she thought it was little wonder anybody managed to navigate their way from one room to the next. It gave her an immediate appreciation for her comfortable and rather modest flat, in which all routes and fittings remained exactly where they ought.  
  
   
It was positively icy in this part of the house, she mused. Navigating from the cellars to the general area of the Manor had been challenging enough. It didn’t matter that she could see where she was going now, because the obstacles were aplenty. She firstly had to contend with other contestants, because every time someone heard her, they came charging. Not unlike possessed hippogriffs.   
   
  
Furthermore, George had not been joking about the strange things they would find. Although Hermione wouldn’t really call a long-bearded dwarf all that scary, when he chased her with his little feet pat-pattering, she’d found it quite disturbing. Fortunately, however, she had managed to outrun the maniacal creature and so was presently somewhere on the second floor of the house.  
   
  
And, most importantly, she knew where she was headed. The attic seemed the most likely place to be hiding the treasure. Although realistically she thought the word  _treasure_  was a bit generous, it gave her a bit of a thrill nonetheless. According to the clue, the location was at one of the extremes of the house. Hermione had been rather peeved by the total vagueness of this information, but she’d broken it down now. She wasn’t entirely sure  _why_  she thought the attic was the place to go, but perhaps it was because she’d already been to the cellars and felt no need for a return journey.  
    
  
In any case, with as much stealth as she could muster, she began to creep across the landing, passing by the sweeping staircase and heading to the left wing. The house was, truly, a maze. She couldn’t fathom how its former residents had managed to find the bathroom at particularly stressing moments.  
   
  
It was silent now, rather eerily so. Having walked into a narrow corridor that diverged left, the direction she was certain she ought to be headed, she was fairly relieved to note that no one else was around. One thing was certain; Hermione had lost count of the number of corridors she’d wandered down in search of a way to get to the uppermost floor.  
   
  
By method of deduction, she could only assume that the narrow corridor, in which she was currently located, was the only possible way to get to the attic. Of course, a quick glimpse out the window on the other side of the house had shown her that the roofline was higher in this wing. Such reasoning was all well and good, but now she had to figure out how to actually get  _up_  to the attic. No mean feat when she didn’t have a wand at her disposal and there was no neon sign indicating an obvious point of entry. Was she supposed to crawl out the window and climb up?  
   
  
‘Ridiculous place,’ she muttered to herself, casting a furtive glance in her general area.  
   
  
‘Perhaps it just doesn’t  _like_  you. Not all that hard to fathom really.’  
   
  
The drawled tones caused the fine hairs of her neck to stand on end. The last thing she needed was for Draco Malfoy of all people to creep up behind her in a scary house. Aside from the fact that his presence was rather inconvenient, she just thought it completely unfair that she was being hounded by annoying people. After all, where were Ginny and Neville?  
   
  
She turned around to appraise him.  
   
  
‘Were you following me?’ Her gaze narrowed at him before flicking over his shoulder for signs of anyone else.  
   
  
‘Believe me, it’d be no reflection on my skill as a stalker. You might as well have brought a full orchestra to set up in here for all the noise you made.’ He smirked.  
   
  
‘Go away, Malfoy. I was here first. It’s called cheating.’  
   
  
‘It’s not called cheating when I actually have the same clue as you … only I know how to access the attic … and you clearly don’t.’ The look of amused triumph positively gleamed in his eyes and she tried to dispel the dismay at his words.  
   
  
It would stand to reason that he’d know. He was the silver-spooned heir of Malfoy Manor after all. She’d been there before and damned if that place wasn’t bigger than this. Creepier too, in spite of the lack of disrepair and strange creatures. Then again, one never knew what Lucius Malfoy might keep for a pet.  
  
   
‘Well in that case, I’m not leaving.’ She crossed her arms in front of herself, completely prepared for a debate.  
   
  
A strange knowing look seemed to linger about his features for a moment before a wry expression curved his mouth. ‘Didn’t think you would.’  
   
  
Well that threw her off. She wasn’t accustomed to him  _not_  trying to aggravate her. Something was most assuredly up.  
   
  
‘So you’re just going to let me watch and follow you. Seems very out of character.’  
   
  
He turned to look at her. ‘Contrary to what you think, Granger, you aren’t actually the primary concern of everyone around. I don’t consider you much of a threat.’ He turned back to gazing at the bare wall. She saw red.  
   
  
Malfoy didn’t seem to notice the flush that rose across her features and the clenching of her fists. He was too busy pressing his palm against the wall and muttering to himself. Definitely a crazy one, she thought.  
   
  
Hermione was wrong though, because whatever weird behaviour Malfoy had exhibited, it caused a crease to form in the wall. The two sides seemed to split and peel back, revealing a winding staircase just beyond. She forgot her annoyance at him for just enough time to be very intrigued about that.  
   
  
He stepped onto the staircase and she rushed to follow him.  
   
  
He leaned in conspiratorially, ‘Still plotting my demise, hmm?’  
   
  
She  _was_  actually. But she smiled sweetly, and noticed the immediate expression of distrust light his features in response. As soon as they were off the staircase, she was gunning for it. Not a second would be wasted in talking to Malfoy.  
   
  
As the moving staircase slowed, Hermione squeezed forward so that she was standing right next to him. He looked down at her with what she could only assume was exasperation.  
   
  
Slowly the wall peeled back, as it had downstairs, and off they went. His legs were longer than Hermione’s, but she had a gritty sort of determination heretofore unseen. They both spotted the innocuous looking trinket box in the far corner of the dusty attic. Though they both lunged with the full force of their bodies, neither of them quite managed to reach the small gilt box. In fact, neither managed to hit the floor at all, because they had been so focused on the prize that they’d forgotten it was all too easy.  
   
  
Before she could blink Hermione saw white all around her. Huge strings of sticky substance had sprung from the walls to wrap around her and Malfoy, pulling them up from the floor and binding them together. Her eyes snapped to his, wide and alarmed. He swore. She refrained but in her mind it was a whole other matter.  
   
  
‘Well,’ he said. ‘Fuck me.’  
  
   
He was unfathomably close to her. In fact, so close that their noses almost brushed and she could see right into his eyes. Given the fact that he was a fair bit taller than her, this was an entirely new experience. She didn’t know quite what to make of it.  
   
  
‘Cosy,’ he muttered. Master of the understatement.  
   
  
She closed her eyes and blew out a sigh. ‘I can’t believe this. So close! And now I’m stuck here with you.’  
   
  
‘It’s not all bad,’ he said by way of response.  
  
   
She looked at him uncertainly. ‘What are you talking about?’  
  
   
‘Well … it’s not like your aversion to me lasts all year round, is it?’  
   
  
Her eyes widened and she didn’t respond. Mostly because she didn’t know how  _to_  respond.  
   
  
‘Granger,’ he said in a slightly singsong voice that made her wonder if he had a dormant penchant for yodelling. ‘You’re thinking  _very_  hard now, aren’t you? Hoping I’m not talking about what you think I’m talking about.’ The grin that curved upon his lips caused her heart to sink down to her ankles.  
   
  
 _Oh dear._  
   
  
‘I don’t—’  
  
   
He raised a brow.  
   
  
‘Shut up, Malfoy. I’ve no idea what you’re referring to. And I want to get out of here now.’  
   
  
She was extremely uncomfortable. There was nowhere to look but at him, which she very much did not want to do. And her cheeks were starting to get itchy, because she knew her hands had no way of reaching them. Goodness only knew how long they would have to wait. Until the least stupid person arrived to claim  _her_  prize, was the best bet.  
   
  
‘You know,’ he mused, ‘we could eat our way out. Got a sweet tooth, Granger?’  
   
  
Just the thought was enough to make her stomach turn. She’d never been overly one for sweet things, and George’s edible cobwebs were nothing more than spun sugar, with an absurd strength and stickiness inbuilt.  
   
  
‘Try if you want ... but there’s no way even you would enjoy the taste.’  
   
  
He shot her a look that went straight to her core. ‘You’d be quite surprised at what I find tasty.’  
   
  
‘Children’s hearts, perhaps?’ she quipped.  
   
  
‘Surprisingly delicious when served on a bed of sprouts.’  
   
  
He smirked lazily at her and she very much hated his cool reserve. She was just impossibly uncomfortable in this situation. Firstly because, well, being bound like this in glorified candy was hardly meant to be a cosy situation; and secondly because all she could see was Malfoy’s mouth. At first she’d thought it safer to look at than his eyes. As it turned out, she was completely wrong. It was definitely the greater of two evils.  
   
  
The memory of how they framed her own, of the heightened state she’d been in at the time, and her continued close encounters with him since had done something very unusual to her system. She needed an immediate escape from her strange situation.  
   
  
Hermione turned her head to cast her eyes toward the entrance, willing someone to come forth and call it all a day.  
   
  
‘So, I’m curious. Indulge me.’  
   
  
‘What?’ she queried turning back to him distractedly. Her dark eyes clashed with his and she caught the glint, which sent a shiver of apprehension through her.  
   
  
‘I can’t imagine you thought the conversation would never come up.’ He raised pale brows at her and she shook her head in bewilderment. The infuriating man spoke in riddles, assuming everyone else on the planet was following his inane tangents.  
   
  
‘For goodness’ sake, Malfoy. I’ve no idea what you’re harping on about.’  
  
   
‘I’m not harping,’ he muttered. ‘And I’m referring to the time when you accosted me in the cloak room. Or have you done that a lot lately and can’t quite narrow it down?’  
   
  
Her heart stopped and her eyes must have been comically wide as she looked at him. Horror descended and if she’d had access to her hands, she’d have used them to cover her flaming cheeks.  
   
  
‘I don’t—’  
   
  
‘Well, yes ... on this occasion you  _did_. Got a pretty vivid memory of it, actually.’  
   
  
Oh, Merlin. She wanted to die.  
   
  
How could he have known? She’d been  _so_  sure that it was too dark. And once she’d seen him around the office without any change in his behaviour, she’d just assumed he’d had no idea.  
   
  
‘It was an accident,’ she croaked. Her eyes were closed now, because cowardice was definitely warranted in that moment.  
   
  
‘Ah ... I suppose your hand down my trousers was an accident as well, hmm?’ His breath tickled her cheeks and she could positively feel the vibrations of mocking amusement coming from him.  
  
   
‘Right,’ she muttered. ‘I didn’t know it was you!’  
   
  
‘I find it very hard to believe that at any point you could have had me confused for someone else. Weasley, I suppose?’ He blanched visibly at the prospect before muttering under his breath. ‘Terribly insulting.’  
   
  
Please, she thought, let him stop.  
   
  
‘And then when you joined my department ... I’ve had to be careful ever since, you know. I was dead concerned you’d drag me into a closet somewhere and have your wicked way with me.’ Her eyes flew open in indignation again, but he continued on in a low voice. ‘Though, truthfully, I think you’d have found me quite cooperative.’  
   
  
‘Er … what?’ She looked at him askance.  
   
  
‘I already told you I have unusual tastes.’  
   
   
  
*  
    
  
‘I spy with my little—’  
  
   
‘You don’t seriously expect me to play this game with you?’  
   
  
She clenched her jaw. Well, it wasn’t as though they had a million and one thrilling ways to pass the time.  
   
  
‘And I suppose you have a better idea, do you?’ She arched a brow at him challengingly.  
   
  
‘If my hands were free … most definitely.’ The small smile that hovered on his lips and the funny little glint in his eyes gave her pause. She was fairly certain that there was an indecent suggestion wrapped up in that comment, but she was hardly going to embarrass herself further by acknowledging it.  
   
  
In fact, she wanted nothing more than to pretend that this night and the entire year preceding it had never occurred. However, Hermione had the distinct impression that her companion wouldn’t allow for that. After all, he basically held knowledge of the single most mortifying moment in her life, and there was no one alive who would relish the chance to exploit it quite like him.  
   
  
She changed the topic entirely.  
   
  
‘What I want to know is how come George decided to make  _this_  the end location. I mean, really, how is anyone supposed to get up here? That’s very unlike him to—’  
   
  
‘Who cares—’  
   
  
‘—such blatant favouritism toward over-indulged purebloods with their large—’  
   
  
‘—but if you’d actually stop and—’  
   
  
‘—no doubt abusing their house-elves too. Really, I think—’  
   
  
‘Merlin, shut up.’  
   
  
She paused in her tirade and glimpsed the pained expression on his face. He was just so impossibly rude that she sometimes wondered whether he had some sort undiagnosed personality disorder.  
   
  
‘Don’t tell me to shut up … you’re  _so_  obnoxious!’  
   
  
He muttered under his breath for a moment and she could see the irritation flashing red across his cheeks. It wasn’t often he lost his composure in quite this way, and she was going to relish this unexpected opportunity.  
   
  
‘If you would stop talking for one moment and  _listen_ , you would know the answer to that. And it’s not because your red-haired behemoth friend wants to go on a house-elf killing spree or whatever you were suggesting.’  
   
  
‘I wasn’t saying—’  
   
  
‘Again with the interruptions!’ She paused then, only because she didn’t want to enable him to make his point. He seemed to realise this because there was a knowing looking his eyes. ‘If you look to the far corner, you’ll see another doorway.’  
   
  
She craned her neck until she saw the entrance to which he was referring, one which was  _not_  the same as the one they’d come through.  
   
  
‘How?’  
   
  
A rather smarmy expression lit his features, and she suspected this was some opportunity of his to show off his amazing prowess at some such thing. Men, she thought, could be rather basic at times.  
   
  
‘The entrance is concealed by the large portrait of a fat man with an even fatter dog, which you ought to have seen downstairs.’  
   
  
‘How did I not notice that …’ she muttered to herself.  
   
  
‘You’re exceptionally unobservant, despite the hype.’ She cut her eyes to him in irritation.  
   
  
‘So how did you do your little trick then, with the wall?’ She hated asking the question, but the need to know was excruciating.  
   
  
‘Walls are malleable in magical dwellings. You just need to find where the wall is thinnest and politely request that it lead you where you wish to go.’  
   
  
She looked at him uncertainly. That was either absurd or very interesting, she couldn’t quite decide which. Either way, she had every intention of consulting her books the minute she got home.  
    
  
‘So, if that’s true, and you knew where the real entrance was … you were just showing off.’  
   
  
He smirked. ‘You know what they say … with knowledge comes power.’  
   
  
He was far too irritating for his own good. Truly.  
   
  
   
  
*  
   
  
‘For someone determined to prove herself completed unattracted to me, you’re going about it the wrong way.’ His drawled tones interrupted her reverie enough to make her colour a little.  
   
  
‘What?’  
   
  
‘You’re staring at my mouth … it sends a certain message.’  
  
   
 _Oh._  Well, that was true; she had been staring at his mouth, but not with lascivious thoughts at all. In fact the primary concern she had at the moment was the intense rumbling in her stomach, a bone deep yearning for food.  
  
   
‘I’m hungry,’ she said by way of response.  
   
  
He grinned. ‘I can see that.’  
   
  
‘Ugh! Not for you … so conceited, honestly. I want  _food_.’  
  
   
Annoyingly, he didn’t look convinced. But then again, someone with the strength of his delusions regarding his power of attraction would probably always remain unconvinced in such a situation.  
  
   
Okay so maybe she  _had_  snuck a few seemingly covert looks, but it  _was_  mostly a craving for something digestible as opposed to ravishment from him.  
   
  
Malfoy was about to say something in response when the thudding of footsteps caught their attention. Someone had finally managed to find their cosy hideout. They both turned immediately toward the entrance and watched with beady eyes.  
   
  
A blond head emerged and Hermione’s heart sank. Of all the ways to cap off her evening, Zacharias Smith had to be the one to stumble upon them first. A slight growl reverberated in her throat and her gaze narrowed in his direction. She could see out of the corner of her eye that Malfoy had turned to her with raised brows.  
   
  
‘I dislike him more than you,’ she said by way of explanation.  
   
  
His voice was low when he responded. ‘I think you dislike a lot of people more than me.’  
   
  
She was so not going near that one.  
   
  
‘Well, look at this,’ the whiny voice of her insipid nemesis carried in the attic as he ventured closer, taking in the spectacle that was Hermione, Malfoy and the webs. ‘Keep besting you … don’t I, Granger?’  
   
  
She wanted to hit him. Apparently so did Malfoy because she was fairly certain he muttered something to that effect under his breath.  
   
  
His pale gaze danced between the two of them, sheer cockiness personified. She watched as his slow amble toward the small box became something more of a strut. The whole time all she could think was that she’d like very much for him to trip.  
   
  
‘This looks cosy … sorry if I’m interrupting something …’  
   
  
‘No, you’re just—’ Hermione never got to finish that because Malfoy jumped in quickly.  
   
  
‘Actually, yes … you are. So if you’ll be on your way …’  
   
  
When her hands were free she was going to hit him, but in the meantime she wanted nothing more than for the slimy Smith to take his prize and go. The sooner that happened, the sooner she and Malfoy would be freed from the constraints of the webs. After all, she was seriously beginning to cramp up.  
   
  
When Smith finally did saunter back down the staircase, box tucked under his arm, Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. No matter that she had, yet again, lost out to him, the prospect of freedom from the confines of the webs, and the tantalising thought of a drink with far too much alcohol held a higher appeal.  
   
  
It was barely ten minutes later when she felt the tingling sensation creeping over her limbs and the sudden release from the bindings. Awkwardly enough, when Hermione and Malfoy were finally released, they fell in a graceless pile of limbs and each other. The air rushed from her lungs when she opened her eyes and saw his barely a breath in front of her. She was draped over his lengthy frame, and couldn’t help but note that one of his hands was caught in a rather inappropriate place.  
   
  
‘Uh … sorry about that,’ she said as she made to detangle herself from his person.  
   
  
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he whispered back, a brief smile curving his lips. ‘This is  _much_ more comfortable.’  
   
  
She rolled her eyes and tried to repress the inexplicable urge to smile at his comment. She really had to remember how irritating and obnoxious and inappropriate he was. In fact, when she got home she was going to write a list. The many ways in which Draco Malfoy’s clear personality defects were not in any way charming.  
  
  
‘Admit it,’ he said. She raised a brow at him, still keenly aware that neither of them had moved. ‘You want me to kiss you now, don’t you?’  
  
   
That right there was going to be dot point number one on the aforementioned list. She rolled her eyes in irritation. ‘I do not, and for your inform—’  
  
   
She never did inform him of anything then, because the extremely presumptuous and rather frustratingly perceptive man decided that regardless of her opinion on the matter, he was going to kiss her anyway. With gusto.  
  
   
It took her a few minutes to recall that kissing him was not something she ought to be doing, and by that stage her lips were rather tender and her tummy rather tingly.  
  
   
‘I don’t think—’ she mumbled.  
   
  
‘Oh, if only that was true … life would be simpler.’ He cocked a brow and seemed to enjoy the flush that grew upon her cheeks. Annoyance at him, she’d call it.  
   
  
She pushed herself up then, pointedly ignoring the slight case of wobbly-knee, which had struck her in the last few minutes. He followed suit. They stood there, dusting themselves off when she looked at him with her most pragmatic expression.  
   
  
‘That was, of course, an accident. It won’t happen again.’  
  
   
‘Right … very accident-prone, aren’t you?’ His mouth curved in amusement, at her expense, and she couldn’t help but wonder why he’d never smiled so much when he was younger. It did nice things to his face, and consequently flip-floppy things to her stomach. She supposed given his childhood, that wasn’t altogether surprising.  
  
   
‘You’re incorrigible,’ she said, and really hated the slight hint of endearment that coloured her tone. He noticed it too and the slight smile grew into something more like a grin.  
   
  
 ’It’s okay, Granger. I’m also a quick learner … so fear not. I’ll be more than prepared for the next time.’  
   
  
‘There won’t be a next—’  
  
   
‘You’re a creature of habit, and it’s already in motion. I just wonder where it will happen next time ... closets and attics are hard to compete with.’ He grinned down at her and she rolled her eyes again.  
  
   
He really, truly, was exasperating.  
  
   
‘You know,’ she said, looking at him with puzzlement written clear across her features. ‘What I don’t understand is why on earth you’re acting as though you’ve a sudden …  _attraction_  to me.’ She whispered the words because it was such a strange thing to say, particularly to him.  
   
  
He looked at her with raised brows.  
  
   
‘We don’t get along at all … in fact half the time we’re in the room together, I want to throttle you, and I know for a fact you harbour secret wishes of throwing me out a window. Don’t pretend otherwise.’ She hadn’t realised that she’d moved closer until her pointed finger was repeatedly jabbing against his chest.  
  
   
He snatched her hand away and muttered something under his breath in a tone of exasperation. What  _he_ had to be exasperated about, she couldn’t fathom. After all, he was the one that was behaving totally out of sorts and was thoroughly confusing her. Really, she needed to get back down to her friends and away from him and this room.  
   
  
She was obviously suffering some sort of variant of the Stockholm Syndrome … excepting, of course, the fact that he hadn’t quite abducted her. But she still thought the principle applied.  
  
   
An inconvenient little voice in her head suggested that this wasn’t strictly true, that she had harboured some unacknowledged interest in him for a while. Naturally, however, Hermione liked to disregard all inner voices … given that they signified insanity at best.  
   
  
It took her a moment to realise that he was talking again.  
   
  
‘—can’t really blame me, what with your incessant need to talk about the most ridiculous things. I should get points for self-restraint actually … given that I haven’t  _yet_  thrown you out of one. A window, that is.’  
  
   
She narrowed her eyes at him.  
   
  
‘And really? You’re applying  _logic_  to this situation? That’s always been you’re problem, you know? Life isn’t logical … it’s full of fucked up connections and strange patterns that no one can make sense of—’  
   
  
‘Now you aren’t making any sense!’ she interrupted.  
   
  
He looked skyward and pulled in a harsh breath. ‘My point is that despite me finding you to be completely frustrating, absurdly ignorant and bossy … I still find you …’  
   
  
For someone who constantly went on about his impeccable breeding and manners, she really began to wonder where on earth he learnt about how to woo a woman. Someone ought to have pointed out that a thorough character assassination was not the best way to start. Of course, she was always doing the same thing to him, but that was thoroughly aside from the point.  
   
  
‘You find me what, exactly?’ She pushed her shoulders back and tilted her chin. Haughtiness personified.  
  
   
He didn’t say anything at first, just stared at her for rather a long period of time. Certainly long enough to make her dignified appearance crack a little, and for that wretched wriggling sensation in her stomach to start up again.  
  
   
A wry expression curved his mouth and he muttered. ‘I’m clearly a glutton for punishment.’  
   
  
She coughed discreetly, rather agreeing with the sentiment. He wasn’t at all like the other men, or boys really, that she had liked. He didn’t have their endearing qualities and warm softness. He was all prickly and hard to read. That, she supposed, was probably part of what drew her in. That wretched intrigue she’d always had for a riddle, a challenge.  
   
  
Her open features must have once again revealed what she was thinking, because he seemed to read something of acquiescence in the plains of her face. He tugged the hand he still held within his own, and she almost collided with him.  
   
  
Now would be the time to embrace a certain sort of cowardice to which she’d never really aspired. It would be totally understandable under the circumstances, of course. Staying in this attic and pretending that something …  _anything_ … good could come of this was absurd.  
  
   
And yet, as his hand braced her hip just so, and his nose brushed against her own, her breath caught in her chest, she rather thought she might be up for just one more adventure.  
   
  
After all, life really  _had_  been rather tedious of late.


End file.
